TASTING THE DIRT

This poem was part of my MFA thesis back in the late 1980's.  It has remained a favorite of mine and I think I should read it at readings more often.  I haven't read it in public for years.

TASTING THE DIRT

Not speaking the language,

I spoke in another language.

What speaks?

Does it speak for the heart?

Does it speak for time?

Is this the part of morning?

Must we always question

With desire, unhinged and hanging

Like a hook into samsara?

Will we find a mouth

In touching the edges of our dreams,

Feeling them like cloth used

To wrap the body, used to stop

The weeping, used to carry us

From loving, somehow children

Again and able to understand everything?

Will we be able to stand here with one

Another, spinning through our lives,

Fire, a metaphor, our clothing, a metapohr,

The great halls of our hearts,

A metaphor, dancing this way,

A metaphor.

Save us from other meaning,

From knowing our visions

As anything other than the singing

That they are, from the clumsy

Fabric we assemble to show

That we are the loved ones of time.

Yes, the night does come and

It is beautiful and the day too, we

Wear around us, weather, the

Reflection of all our emotions,

Clouds, our thoughts describing

The mystery of being here.

And yes, the sky is such a brilliant blue.

I shall know you forever.

There is no ground to stand that

Is not ourselves.  There is no sound

That is not language.  Not speaking

The language, I speak in this peculiar way,

So you may know I am among you.